


Little Hooks

by JossPonyhater, seventeenphones



Series: Little Hooks [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Arguing, Drunk Sex, Guns, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 08:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3350267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JossPonyhater/pseuds/JossPonyhater, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventeenphones/pseuds/seventeenphones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time since beginning his new job, Sebastian got drunk last night.  Very, very drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Hooks

Awake. Probably. He hurt too much to be dead. 

Otherwise this was hell, and Sebastian had always assumed damnation would hurt more than cheap liquor. Struggling into consciousness was like trying to swim through quicksand. The groan he let out was muffled by the mattress, curling himself tighter under a pile of blankets and pillows and ridiculously soft sheets.

Jesus Christ getting fucked up the ass. What the hell had he done last night? Drinking, obviously; if the pain hadn’t been clue enough, the day-old whiskey coating his tongue would have done the trick. Sex? Was this someone's flat? His bed wasn’t this big, sheets not so cool or smooth, but he’d have to drag open a leaden eyelid to be sure. A hand wobbled out from beneath the pile of bedclothes he’d burrowed under, groping blindly for his phone. He winced again when his fingers found it and sent it clattering to the floor.

"Fuck."

The word was muttered thickly, and into the mattress at that. It didn’t matter.

"Mora-aan...”

The noise got louder as it went on, and it was worse than the light, a knife in his eye; he curled into a defensive ball. A scalpel, then a kukri, edging slowly up to bowie.

“You’ve slept the day away. I should hang you from the balcony by your testicles.”

He sounded entertained, but it was still a shout, thundering through the safe cocoon of blankets; when it was over, Sebastian found he'd put both hands over his head, like he might protect himself from the shelling.

Right. Not his bed. Not _his_ his bed. Jim. Moriarty. Job. _Shit_.

He steeled himself before trying to shout back, however weakly. "Yeah. Uh. Won’t happen again." It rang painfully in his head. Why had he gotten this drunk while he was on a _job_? He really might never drink again this time. Maybe.

 _Job, Moran_. He was a supposed to be a bodyguard, not a fucking drunken layabout, stumbling back at Christ knew when to pass out on the bed so obscenely comfortable it might hand out blowjobs.

Step one. Sit up. Blankets falling away, the light hit his closed eyelids like an irate Russian Sebastian had once known. Step two: eyes open. Objective reached, no matter _what_ kind of blade this headache had become-

Was that orange juice? On the nightstand, a tall, gleaming glass of it, condensation forming droplets that trickled down the glass. Holy _fuck_ it looked _amazing_ , particularly when his throat was made of sandpaper and sticks.

The voice came again, quieter now, from the open doorway that lead to the rest of the flat. “All business even when your head's in a pressure tank, hm? I suppose that's admirable. Or boring. Drunken halfwit."

It could be difficult to figure out what the fuck Jim was on about on his best days. Today, Sebastian didn't even bother to try, especially when every word drove that knife a little deeper.

Third objective- no, fourth- the glass of juice was already half empty in his hand, and Christ, it tasted better than sex. Sex? Standing. _Stand up_. The room insisted on a sickening spin, but Sebastian gritted his teeth and stayed upright, somehow. Fifth objective; painkillers, chased with orange juice that was like goddamned ambrosia. He padded into the living room in bare feet and cargo pants, hair sticking in several unusual directions, and made for the kitchen as though gravity drew him there.

Had Jim been talking? "Yeah,” he said, words coming out thick and stupid. “Well. You know me. S'there coffee?" Dumbarsed question; Jim never made coffee. Sebastian still had a handgun tucked into the waistband of his trousers; it had warmed against his skin, sticking slightly. He’d forgotten it was there.

Jim sat at a delicate-looking table in front of the open door to the patio, typing and speaking to his laptop, looking infinitely more fucking well put-together than anyone had at a right to at this time of- of _ever._ His suit was a crisp grey, suggested metal; the kind that reminded Sebastian of a gun, polished and sleek. And was there a better metaphor for Jim fucking Moriarty? The bogeyman of the criminal world, the subject of countless conspiracy theories, the man whose name people hardly dared to fucking whisper.

Bogeyman. Right. Barely three months into his employ, Sebastian Moran mostly found Jim Moriarty to be one of the most irritating little shits he'd ever had to work for in his pitted fucking life.

" _Idiot_." Jim snapped his laptop shut, eyes sliding in his direction, and Sebastian turned to the kitchen before the man decided more shouting was in order. Not that it _helped_ ; Jim had already appeared and slid onto the counter like a fucking cat, perched next to the coffee maker while Sebastian stood dumb, staring like he couldn’t remember how it worked.

"Poor Sebastian. What a _time_ you've had. And now on top of everything, you'll have to pack."

"Yeah," was what Sebastian managed, setting the now-empty juice glass on the counter. Juice. Where had that come from? He blinked at it. Jim?

Was it poison?

Didn’t matter now. Coffee. Fifth objective- no, fourth- shit. The list started to disintegrate, now that he was nominally awake; the bag of Ethiopian was in the cupboard next to the sugar, and goddamn if it didn't smell fantastic. "S'that right. Where'm I going?" If he was lucky, the job would be local; the thought of a plane ride made him want to whimper.

Sex?

"What time did I get in?" Making coffee was soothing. Slow, steady, going through the motions. He was trying to prod the booze-clouded memories of the night before, but they weren't forming properly yet, and it made the pain in his head that much worse.

"Who can remember?" Jim’s eyes were gleaming, his legs swinging a little, head tilting slowly while he watched. Cracking his neck with a slow stretch. "I've been so busy. As for where, I haven't decided that yet. You're spartan; there weren't many boxes when you moved in, were there?"

“There were _no_ boxes. Couple of bags.” Sebastian spoke on auto-pilot. It took a few seconds for what Jim meant- what he _might_ mean- to sink in. "You want me out?" Was he being fired? No. No. If Jim were firing him, he’d already be coughing up blood.

Still trying to figure out where, when, and with whom he'd had sex the night before, Sebastian slid a suddenly wary look at the empty juice glass next to the sink. The coffee maker burbled quietly.

"That was cruel of me, wasn't it? You're too clever by half, even in this sorry state." Jim rested his hands on either side of his legs, leaning forward. Like he might leap. "No, I don't want you out. _I'm_ moving. I can't very well stay here after last night. And you, obviously, will be coming with me." A yawn overtook him quite suddenly, and he rolled his neck again. "That is, unless you're trying to quit. That really would be an overreaction."

Okay. Okay. Not fired then. The probability of poisoned orange juice went back down from Extremely Fucking Likely to A Distinct Possibility. Given Jim.

Jim who, if he would stop sitting there being so fucking _distracting_ , might have made gaining consciousness a little easier. At least Sebastian had practice at this part, at functioning while around this man. This man who lingered constantly in his peripheral, in his perfectly tailored suits, in the strangely rumpled clothes he’d turn up in without warning; this man and his slight, fluid form, slithering lithe around the flat- _focus._

Sebastian resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands, instead tugging wisps of blond hair away from narrowing eyes, still trying to work it through. There had definitely been someone's _mouth_ on his _dick_ \- either in an alley, or- or on a balcony- his eyes widened a little, painfully, dragged to the terrace door. _No-_ no, he couldn’t have. Even blackout drunk, he wouldn't have been stupid enough to bring someone back _here_.

Would he? Would he, and wake up to find Jim wasn’t going to fucking _kill him_ for it?

The machine had begun to quiet; he swore under his breath, reaching for one of the mugs now a few inches from Jim's hip. "All right, boss. Be straight with me. Did I do something unforgivably stupid last night?"

Whatever response Sebastian had been expecting, it wasn’t a fucking _giggle_ ; sudden, quiet, and no possible definition of sane. Jim’s mouth covered by one hand, then two; his eyes shone with it, like the crazy couldn’t be stoppered up. That stare, like, like-

"Oh, I don't know about unforgivably. I suppose that depends on whether or not you remember Julian, which you don't- but you seemed quite enamoured of him at the time. Not enough, evidently. Not _nearly_ enough."

Like a boy watching a large bug he’d caught under a jar, deciding whether or not to bother with his magnifying glass. That was what it was like.

"Out of curiosity, Sebastian, what _is_ the last thing you remember? Really _stretch_." Jim did. His neck, at least, while he watched for an answer.

The last thing Sebastian remembered was someone's _mouth_ on his _dick_ \- but he couldn’t remember where exactly it was, or why it was so caught up with Jim's voice in his ear. Not that _that_ bit was hard to figure out, not after the last few weeks of trying not to imagine- no, the strange part was that it was so clear. Like it had really been there.

And having some sense of self-fucking-preservation, none of this was precisely tripping off his tongue.

But Jim thought it was funny. Sebastian should probably appreciate that more, but- _now_ his face was buried in his hands. Of all the stupid- _unprofessional_ \- bullshit nonsense- "Where's the body?" The words were muffled by his hands. "I'll take care of it before we leave."

"I'm hurt, Sebastian. I may be your employer, but I thought we'd come to understand each other better than that. Surely you don't think I would leave some poor dead boy to rot while you nursed your alcoholic daze? I've been doing this longer than you have."

Sebastian looked up in time to see Jim’s mouth form a prim little ‘o’. "Oopsie. Now I'll have to kill you." He laughed again- a real laugh this time, which was as fucking unsettling as his giggle- and slipped off the counter, reaching for the coffee Sebastian had poured. "Then there _will_ be a body. And really there ought to be, but we'll come to that. I don't suppose I was _nearly_ as well protected as I should have been this morning, was I? Lucky me Ulster's still dead on or your man'd just've killed me outright instead of talkin' me ear off about _the struggle_. You fucking idiot."

 _Christ_ , Sebastian hated it when Jim did that. Slipped in and out of accents like water. This was a new one- the Irish veering north, tone growling rough, grating against Sebastian's skin instead of flowing against it like those silken sheets he'd been sleeping in. Deeply familiar, in a way that made Sebastian sort of want to hit him, except Jim’s hand was on his cheek, _patting_ it, like he was a boy.

There was a moment, the two of them standing there- but Sebastian grasped at his rules through the dense fog of his headache, and pulled away.

He reached for his coffee, frowning only for a second at the space where it’d been, and reached for a second mug. They’d had a meeting this morning? He could hardly ask. It’d already happened, and neither of them were dead. It wasn’t a _problem_.

"I wasn’t really enough of a dumbfuck to bring someone back here, was I?" _Julian_. _Poor boy._ Well, there went that bit of his fucking personal life. Not that Sebastian was in any kind of closet, he just- didn't advertise when he was working.

"You're a disgrace, Moran." Jim said it as easily and amiably as he had everything else, though he'd hopped back up onto the counter, out of patting distance. "An absolute fucking disgrace. _Did I bring someone back here_.” He was watching Sebastian in that _way_ again. Measuring. Waiting.

"You _would_ have been this time, maybe. ‘Enough of a dumbfuck’. I wouldn't have minded. Bring home all the mindless pups you like, as long as you're ready to dispose of them. Should it come to that." Watching Sebastian over the brim of his coffee mug, Jim smiled.

"Then again, I thought it had already come to something else; you sounded lucid enough at the time." Jim seemed to steady his cup so as not to spill when he laughed. And laughed, and laughed.

Seb's teeth ground, just enough to remind him how bad an idea it was, and he flinched. More aspirin. Possibly the whole bottle. Maybe taking the edge off the fucking headache would help him understand what the _hell_ Jim was talking about.

Other than Sebastian's sex life.

He frowned ferociously, pressing a palm to his temple. "I wouldn't. Bring anyone back." And he hadn't, thank fuck. But Jim's voice, and his- _someone's_ mouth, and a balcony, or an alleyway- if he could just fucking _remember_ -

 _A man, young and black-haired and just smooth enough to seem familiar in the dark- on his knees, on pavement, the sound of scuffling against stone and brick- mouth wet and gorgeous around Sebastian’s cock- lips slow, like the man on his knees thought_ he _was the one teasing, when really it was the purring laughter in his ear, the weight of the earpiece, and the man with the lips couldn’t know, he couldn’t, he couldn’t-_

_Jim’s mouth as Sebastian’s hands gripped the balcony, staring into Jim’s eyes, black and empty and endless in the dim light filtering out from the flat, and it’s so fucking far past teasing there’s no word for it, lips and tongue maddening, desultory, and the railing so cold under Sebastian’s hands-_

_Gasping, panting, trying not to touch, trying to remember to breathe and wondering if Jim would slice his femoral artery if Sebastian lost control, touched his hair, if he thrust into that warm, sinful fucking mouth- if Sebastian thrust, if Sebastian_ came _in that mouth the way he’d imagined so many times- and all his control - his rules - were fraying, unravelling, so fucking close-_

 _Remember. Not until I_ say-

 _Jim, please_ -

 _Since you've asked_ nicely-

Nothing had happened, in the kitchen of the little flat. A car honked its horn loudly near their window; a branch tapped the window. And Sebastian was staring, and for once, all of his confusion and bluster and Work Faces and fucking- _everything_ \- had been wiped away.

"Let me tell you what _I_ think," came the conversational reply, Jim setting his coffee on the counter next to him, smiling. Calm. Delighted. "No- that would be disingenuous, and all this _truth telling_ has been so much fun. Let me tell you what I _know_. You won't remember everything, not ever- but I will. And as the bits and pieces come back to you, as you cringe away from whatever it is you’ve decided to call your truly _astonishing_ lack of judgment... there I'll be. Appreciating it properly." He moved forward until he was bare inches away, looking up at Sebastian very much as he had the night before. Though now he was standing.

"Because I'll know you wrestle with your demons for my entertainment now, Moran. I'll know every whisper and crack of your mind- you spread it all over your face, you know, even when you think you’re circumspect and sober. I'll know exactly how delicious it is to hear you beg any time- _any time_ I like. I'll know that whatever pretty little miscreant you wrangle back to his squat, whatever squalid secrets you may share in the dark, you'll be thinking of me. I'll know there is one immutable fact around which so much of this revolves: in that throbbing club with whatever boys draped on your arm vying for your attention, _you_ called _me_." Jim bit his lip, smile widening, a finger running over Sebastian's shoulder on his way out of the kitchen. His skin was hot where it had rested against the mug.

"You were tougher than I thought, I'll give you that," he called over his shoulder. "There was that night a few weeks ago- but that's why you're so much _fun_ , Sebastian. That’s why I’m so glad we’ll keep playing. How long will it take you to get your things together?"

It was like being plunged into water, boiling then freezing, over and over again- the stark horror of what Jim was saying kept hollowing Sebastian, filling him up, scraping him out again. Genuine fear, because this man, with his smooth fucking voice and his crooked neck and his barely-there smirk, moving closer with the grace of a jungle cat- this man had come right up to a wall Seb had spent fucking years perfecting. Found the smallest crack, shoved a wedge in, and split him open like a fucking nut. Digging the meat out to savour without pretense, right in front of him. Like it tasted better that way.

Jim knew too much. He was too fucking smart, and now he’d _seen_ Sebastian, right down to the goddamned bones- heard him _beg_ \- and maybe it had been Seb’s cock in Jim’s mouth, but he remembered those fucking eyes. Triumphant. Like in that moment of weakness, when Sebastian could barely stay on his feet, Jim had _won_ something.

And the worst of it was, he had.

How many people had seen him that way? That raw? No, worse. He’d seen Sebastian _weak_ \- and the most hateful part, the biggest fucking joke of all was that Seb had _liked_ it. He _still_ liked it; in that moment, eyes boring into the clean white tile where Jim had been standing, he could feel it. A slow heat uncurling under his skin, kicking off a pounding in his ears that had nothing to do with his hangover.

That laugh. His loss of control, the word- _that_ word- coming out of his own _fucking mouth_ \- Jim had seen every second of that. And he thought it was fucking hysterical.

There was only one solution.

The motion was a smooth one, coming several seconds after Jim called over his shoulder; his arm twisted backward, pulling the gun from his waistband. Racking the gun sounded louder than it should have, echoing in his still-aching skull. The gun rose, straight, steady, pointed at Jim’s back. It took several more seconds for Sebastian’s head to turn, to look at the man still strolling away, as though everything was taken care of, now.

“You know so much about me, do you?” Sebastian’s voice was flat. Dead. "Not for very long."


End file.
